The Year's Best Science Fiction, Thirty-Second Annual Collection

by Gardner Dozois

  “What is preventing you?” he asked, curious.

  Silence answered him. Amara sat frozen in her chair, while Narita shifted uneasily in hers. Chaurin watched, reading the currents that flowed between them. It wasn’t long before the muddy waters began to clear. “You do not talk to me, which is unsurprising, as I am a stranger—but you do not talk to each other, either.”

  After a long moment, Narita said, “We are afraid if we do talk, we will find ourselves in too great disagreement.” Amara nodded, and then lifted her cup to her lips, precluding speech.

  Chaurin was intrigued. “You fear you stand on opposite sides of a ravine, too far from each other to reach across. That may be, but how will you know unless you stretch out your hand?” He was happy to fall for a moment into the role of matchmaker again, relieved to have something familiar to do, in such a strange place. Chaurin had read about human matchmakers, who worked only until the first mating, and then considered their job complete. That had bewildered him; mating was never easy; if one took on the responsibility of making a match, surely it followed that one owed the pairing some guidance in the early years, some help going forward? His own mate would surely have slain him by now were it not for their matchmaker’s gentle interventions. “Narita, what is it you desire?”

  She bit her lip and then said, “I want a healthy child.”

  “And Amara?”

  The shorter woman hesitated. “I want that too. Of course I do.” Her voice sharpened as she continued, “But—how healthy? What do you mean when you say healthy?” And then it broke. “Are you sure you don’t mean beautiful?”

  Narita said, with some urgency, “You are beautiful.”

  Amara shrugged, old pain evident in the set of her shoulders. “Not as beautiful as I could be; not as beautiful as you are.”

  Interesting—Chaurin had little conception of human beauty, but he could see that Narita’s features were more regular, her skin smoother. Was that beautiful?

  Narita leaned forward across the table, reaching out to take Amara’s hand in hers. “Beauty isn’t some absolute. It is specific; it is the details of your face. I wouldn’t change a single feature, not a line on your face, not a curve of your body.”

  “I don’t think I believe you,” Amara said softly, lines creasing her forehead.

  Chaurin was not sure what those lines meant, but he didn’t think they were good. He sighed. “That is a bigger muddle than we will clear quickly—and I am not staying to work with you. But surely you have someone you may contact?”

  There was silence again, for an endless moment. Then—“The devadasi?” Amara offered tentatively.

  Narita laughed, sounding startled. “Really? You want her? There are plenty of other counselors we could call.”

  Amara shrugged. “After we fought together that night—I trust her. The fact that you slept with her occasionally, in the years when we were apart, feels … irrelevant.”

  Narita frowned. “She’ll want us all to be naked for the conversations, you know. It’s part of the devadasi practice; she thinks it helps lower barriers.”

  “Maybe she’s right,” Amara said, a small smile lurking at the edges of her mouth.

  Narita squeezed her mate’s hand and then released it, sitting back. She turned back to Chaurin. “I’m so sorry. You’re helping us, and I’ve been so impossibly rude. Rude is a kind word for it. You must think me obscene. I just—”

  She bit her lip again, and Chaurin wondered what that gesture meant. Shame, perhaps. Which was appropriate enough, for her request was, if not obscene, then borderline sacrilegious. But how could you expect proper respect and appropriate behavior from aliens? And wasn’t that what this war was about, after all? If the gulf between species was, in truth, too vast to be bridged, then perhaps the pure human movement was right after all. Better to go back to our separate worlds, like quarrelling children sent to their separate rooms.

  But didn’t one ask more, expect more, from adults?

  Chaurin wished Gaurav were here. He would know what to do. After the funeral rites, Chaurin might know as well, might hold that knowledge inside himself, a small, glowing kernel.

  He sighed. In truth, he already knew what Gaurav would do—that was why he had agreed to come here, to this small, homey kitchen. Gaurav’s choice was clear, in the way his little brother had lived his life—going out to tour the Charted Worlds, instead of staying safe at home. Staying on this planet to live and work, instead of trying every expedient to get back home. It was clear in his death most of all—Chaurin had read the police reports. His brother could have fled when the fighting began, but instead, he had run toward the battle, had gone to help the aliens, the strangers. When the stranger asked for help, Gaurav gave it. Could Chaurin do less?

  He asked, “You can cook the soup here?”

  Narita nodded, her eyes wide. “We can make it right now, if you want. And then I can take it to the lab, freeze-dry it into cubes, so you can easily take it back home. If you dissolve the cubes into a larger pot of water, it should give as many mouthfuls as you need. We would be very happy to help you with that.”

  “Then, if you like, I think I can spare a few mouthfuls to share with you,” Chaurin said, gently. It felt … right. He was still angry, on some level, even enraged. But these two were not the proper target of his rage. That rage he would direct at those who sought to divide them, those who took bloody action in that cause.

  Amara swallowed visibly; Chaurin could scent her revulsion. Narita said, “You don’t have to, if you don’t want to.” But Amara shook her head, swallowed again, and said, “No. I want to honor Gaurav, in the way of his people. I’d like to do this.”

  They were so strange, these humans. But brave too. Chaurin did not want to go back home and hide in the tunnels. If they stood on the edge of the abyss, he chose to reach out his hand to the stranger. Perhaps they would find a way across.

  Someday

  JAMES PATRICK KELLY

  Here’s an examination of the peculiar courtship customs and divergent biology that have developed on a lost colony that has drifted out of touch with the rest of humanity—with a final clever twist waiting at the end.

  James Patrick Kelly made his first sale in 1975, and has gone on to become one of the most respected and popular writers to enter the field. Although Kelly has had some success with novels, especially with Wildlife, he has perhaps had more impact to date as a writer of short fiction, with stories such as “Solstice,” “The Prisoner of Chillon,” “Glass Cloud,” “Mr. Boy,” “Pogrom,” “Home Front,” “Undone,” and “Bernardo’s House,” and is often ranked among the best short-story writers in the business. His story “Think Like a Dinosaur” won him a Hugo Award in 1996, as did his story “1016 to 1,” in 2000. Kelly’s first solo novel, the mostly ignored Planet of Whispers, came out in 1984. It was followed by Freedom Beach, a mosaic novel written in collaboration with John Kessel, and then by another solo novel, Look into the Sun, as well as the chapbook novella, Burn. His short work has been collected in Think Like a Dinosaur and Strange But Not a Stranger. His most recent books are a series of anthologies coedited with John Kessel: Feeling Very Strange: The Slipstream Anthology; The Secret History of Science Fiction; Digital Rapture: The Singularity Anthology; Rewired: The Post-Cyberpunk Anthology; and Nebula Awards Showcase 2012. Born in Minneola, New York, Kelly now lives with his family in Nottingham, New Hampshire. He has a web site at www.JimKelly.net, and reviews Internet-related matters for Asimov’s Science Fiction.

  Daya had been in no hurry to become a mother. In the two years since she’d reached childbearing age, she’d built a modular from parts she’d fabbed herself, thrown her boots into the volcano, and served as blood judge. The village elders all said she was one of the quickest girls they had ever seen—except when it came to choosing fathers for her firstborn. Maybe that was because she was too quick for a sleepy village like Third Landing. When her mother, Tajana, had come of age, she’d left for the blue city to fi
nd fathers for her baby. Everyone expected Tajana would stay in Halfway, but she had surprised them and returned home to raise Daya. So once Daya had grown up, everyone assumed that someday she would leave for the city like her mother, especially after Tajana had been killed in the avalanche last winter. What did Third Landing have to hold such a fierce and able woman? Daya could easily build a glittering new life in Halfway. Do great things for the colony.

  But everything had changed after the scientists from space had landed on the old site across the river, and Daya had changed most of all. She kept her own counsel and was often hard to find. That spring she had told the elders that she didn’t need to travel to gather the right semen. Her village was happy and prosperous. The scientists had chosen it to study and they had attracted tourists from all over the colony. There were plenty of beautiful and convenient local fathers to take to bed. Daya had sampled the ones she considered best, but never opened herself to blend their sperm. Now she would, here in the place where she had been born.

  She chose just three fathers for her baby. She wanted Ganth because he was her brother and because he loved her above all others. Latif because he was a leader and would say what was true when everyone else was afraid. And Bakti because he was a master of stories and because she wanted him to tell hers someday.

  She informed each of her intentions to make a love feast, although she kept the identities of the other fathers a secret, as was her right. Ganth demanded to know, of course, but she refused him. She was not asking for a favor. It would be her baby, her responsibility. The three fathers, in turn, kept her request to themselves, as was custom, in case she changed her mind about any or all of them. A real possibility—when she contemplated what she was about to do, she felt separated from herself.

  That morning she climbed into the pen and spoke a kindness to her pig Bobo. The glint of the knife made him grunt with pleasure and he rolled onto his back, exposing the tumors on his belly. She hadn’t harvested him in almost a week and so carved two fist-sized maroon swellings into the meat pail. She pressed strips of sponge root onto the wounds to stanch the bleeding and when it was done, she threw them into the pail as well. When she scratched under his jowls to dismiss him, Bobo squealed approval, rolled over and trotted off for a mud bath.

  She sliced the tumors thin, dipped the pieces in egg and dragged them through a mix of powdered opium, pepper, flour, and bread crumbs, then sautéed them until they were crisp. She arranged them on top of a casserole of snuro, parsnips and sweet flag, layered with garlic and three cheeses. She harvested some of the purple blooms from the petri dish on the windowsill and flicked them on top of her love feast. The aphrodisiacs produced by the bacteria would give an erection to a corpse. She slid the casserole into the oven to bake for an hour while she bathed and dressed for babymaking.

  Daya had considered the order in which she would have sex with the fathers. Last was most important, followed by first. The genes of the middle father—or fathers, since some mothers made babies with six or seven for political reasons—were less reliably expressed. She thought starting with Ganth for his sunny nature and finishing with Latif for his looks and good judgment made sense. Even though Bakti was clever, he had bad posture.

  Ganth sat in front of a fuzzy black and white screen with his back to her when she nudged the door to his house open with her hip. “It’s me. With a present.”

  He did not glance away from his show—the colony’s daily news and gossip program about the scientists—but raised his forefinger in acknowledgment.

  She carried the warming dish with oven mitts to the huge round table that served as his desk, kitchen counter and sometime closet. She pushed aside some books, a belt, an empty bottle of blueberry kefir, and a Fill Jump higher action figure to set her love feast down. Like her own house, Ganth’s was a single room, but his was larger, shabbier, and built of some knotty softwood.

  Her brother took a deep breath, his face pale in the light of the screen. “Smells delicious.” He pressed the off button; the screen winked and went dark.

  “What’s the occasion?” He turned to her, smiling. “Oh.” His eyes went wide when he saw how she was dressed. “Tonight?”

  “Tonight.” She grinned.

  Trying to cover his surprise, he pulled out the pocket watch he’d had from their mother and then shook it as if it were broken. “Why, look at the time. I totally forgot that we were grown up.”

  “You like?” She weaved her arms and her ribbon robe fluttered.

  “I was wondering when you’d come. What if I had been out?”

  She nodded at the screen in front of him. “You never miss that show.”

  “Has anyone else seen you?” He sneaked to the window and peered out. A knot of gawkers had gathered in the street. “What, did you parade across Founders’ Square dressed like that? You’ll give every father in town a hard-on.” He pulled the blinds and came back to her. He surprised her by going down on one knee. “So which am I?”

  “What do you think?” She lifted the cover from the casserole to show that it was steaming and uncut.

  “I’m honored.” He took her hand in his and kissed it. “Who else?” he said. “And you have to tell. Tomorrow everyone will know.”

  “Bakti. Latif last.”

  “Three is all a baby really needs.” He rubbed his thumb across the inside of her wrist. “Our mother would approve.”

  Of course, Ganth had no idea of what their mother had really thought of him.

  Tajana had once warned Daya that if she insisted on choosing Ganth to father her baby, she should dilute his semen with that of the best men in the village. A sweet manner is fine, she’d said, but babies need brains and a spine.

  “So, dear sister, it’s a sacrifice…,” he said, standing. “… but I’m prepared to do my duty.” He caught her in his arms.

  Daya squawked in mock outrage.

  “You’re not surprising the others are you?” He nuzzled her neck.

  “No, they expect me.”

  “Then we’d better hurry. I hear that Eldest Latif goes to bed early.” His whisper filled her ear. “Carrying the weight of the world on his back tires him out.”

  “I’ll give him reason to wake up.”

  He slid a hand through the layers of ribbons until he found her skin. “Bakti, on the other hand, stays up late, since his stories weigh nothing at all.” The flat of his hand against her belly made her shiver. “I didn’t realize you knew him that well.”

  She tugged at the hair on the back of Ganth’s head to get his attention. “Feasting first,” she said, her voice husky. Daya hadn’t expected to be this emotional. She opened her pack, removed the bottle of chardonnay and poured two glasses. They saluted each other and drank, then she used the spatula she had brought—since she knew her brother wouldn’t have one—to cut a square of her love feast. He watched her scoop it onto a plate like a man uncertain of his luck. She forked a bite into her mouth. The cheese was still melty—maybe a bit too much sweet flag. She chewed once, twice, and then leaned forward to kiss him. His lips parted and she let the contents of her mouth fall into his. He groaned and swallowed. “Again.” His voice was thick. “Again and again and again.”

  Afterward they lay entangled on his mattress on the floor. “I’m glad you’re not leaving us, Daya.” He blew on the ribbons at her breast and they trembled. “I’ll stay home to watch your baby,” he said. “Whenever you need me. Make life so easy, you’ll never want to go.”

  It was the worst thing he could have said; until that moment she had been able to keep from thinking that she might never see him again. He was her only family, except for the fathers her mother had kept from her. Had Tajana wanted to make it easy for her to leave Third Landing? “What if I get restless here?” Daya’s voice could have fit into a thimble. “You know me.”

  “Okay, maybe someday you can leave.” He waved the idea away. “Someday.”

  She glanced down his lean body at the hole in his sock and dust s
trings dangling from his bookshelf. He was a sweet boy and her brother, but he played harder than he worked. Ganth was content to let the future happen to him; Daya needed to make choices, no matter how hard. “It’s getting late.” She pressed her cheek to his. “Do me a favor and check on Bobo in the morning? Who knows when I’ll get home.”

  By the time she kissed Ganth good-bye, it was evening. An entourage of at least twenty would-be spectators trailed her to Old Town; word had spread that the very eligible Daya was bringing a love feast to some lucky fathers. There was even a scatter of tourists, delighted to witness Third Landing’s quaint mating ritual. The locals told jokes, made ribald suggestions and called out names of potential fathers. She tried to ignore them; some people in this village were so nosy.

  Bakti lived in one of the barnlike stone dormitories that the settlers had built two centuries ago across the river from their landing spot. Most of these buildings were now divided into shops and apartments. When Daya finally revealed her choice by stopping at Bakti’s door, the crowd buzzed. Winners of bets chirped, losers groaned. Bakti was slow to answer her knock, but when he saw the spectators, he seized her arm and drew her inside.

  Ganth had been right: she and Bakti weren’t particularly close. She had never been to his house, although he had visited her mother on occasion when she was growing up. She could see that he was no better a housekeeper than her brother, but at least his mess was all of a kind. The bones of his apartment had not much changed from the time the founders had used it as a dormitory; Bakti had preserved the two walls of wide shelves that they had used as bunks. Now, however, instead of sleeping refugees from Genome Crusades, they were filled with books, row upon extravagant row. This was Bakti’s vice; not only did he buy cheap paper from the village stalls; he had purchased hundreds of hardcovers on his frequent trips to the blue city. They said he even owned a few print books that the founders had brought across space. There were books everywhere, open on chairs, chests, the couch, stacked in leaning towers on the floor.